Limp Sam
by elfinblue
Summary: A hundred-and-one uses for that ubiquitous Limp!Sam the show keeps giving us. Or, y'know, six uses anyway. (Get your minds out of the gutters, ladies! This fic is rated K!) A series of related drabbles. The author's rant - er, note - is the longest thing in here. Pure and unadulterated crack.


Limp!Sam

Author's note: This piece of total nonsense grew out of a conversation I had with a friend about certain themes that The Powers That Be seem determined to run into the ground. My friend commented that, as a Dean girl, she isn't really fond of limp!Sam stories and she didn't really appreciate a half season of limp!Sam. While I can understand that Sam girls are fond of their limp!Sam stories, I not only have to agree with my friend, but I think she's understating the issue. We've actually had a lot more than half of season of limp!Sam. In fact, every season except three has revolved at least to some extent around the concept of "something's wrong with Sam!" In one, it was fairly mild with "Sam's having nightmares and doesn't want to be drawn back into the hunt". In two they ramped things up with "Sam's developing powers, getting headaches, and has a _destiny_". In four it was "Sam's addicted to demon blood!" In five, "Sam's a recovering demon blood addict". In six Sam was soulless, then unconscious for a lengthy period, then he had a wall. In Seven the wall came down and he was mentally/emotionally unstable and hallucinating, then comatose, and, in eight, of course, he was suffering from trial-induced tuberculosisishness. Seriously, at this point I'm expecting season nine to revolve around Sam having an ingrown toenail.

Don't get me wrong - I like Sam. It's just that I like badass!Sam a lot better than badhealth!Sam and I'd prefer to see him vertical and sane more often. At this point the conversation turned to the way the show tends to treat Dean and it just made me all depressed and growly, so I decided that, if they're determined to keep giving us ALL LIMP!SAM! ALL THE TIME! I could maybe, at least, come up with some more entertaining uses for him.

Disclaimer: Nothing in these shorts should be taken seriously. Seriously!

Limp!Sam

. . . .

I. (Drabble - 100 words)

Dean Winchester huddled beside his unconscious brother, brushed Sam's hair from his forehead and checked the two pieces of fabric he'd wrung out and placed there. The heat from Sam's head had leached out most of the water. They were still slightly damp, though, so he re-positioned them, putting the moist cloth against Sam's skin.

There was a tap at the door and Charlie Bradbury stuck her head in.

"Are you almost ready? We're going to be late."

He glanced over his shoulder, catching her in his anxious gaze.

"I can't leave _now_," he said. "My socks aren't dry yet."

. . .

II. (Double drabble - 200 words)

Sam reclined listlessly against the Impala's windshield, enjoying the warmth of the sun soaking into his bare skin and pleasantly baking his lax muscles. Dean had removed his shirt for him, put down a beach towel to protect him from the hot metal, even slathered him with suntan lotion and provided him with a pair of aviator-style sunglasses he'd dug up God only knows where.

As he basked in the sunshine, it occurred to him that there were a lot of people milling about. With a great effort, he rolled his head to the side so that he could see Dean, leaning against the driver's side of the car and studying a fistful of twenties.

"D'n?" he slurred. "Wh'r'r' we?"

"We're at a car show, my brother. A classic car show. Baby just won first place."

Sam summoned the energy for a wan smile. "S'awesome!"

"Yeah, ain't it? It's being put on by the historical society. The judges are all little old ladies. I don't believe any of them knows a thing about cars."

"B'w'won?"

"I think they liked the new hood ornament."

Sam tipped his head, puzzled. "'mpala's g'ta new h'd orn'm'nt?"

Dean just smiled and counted his prize money.

III. (Drabble - 100 words)

Dean dragged Sam gently along the smooth floorboards, next to the wall. He lay him down carefully, making sure he was stretched out to his full length.

"Y'okay?" he asked, clasping Sam's shoulder. "You comfortable?"

"Mmm mm," Sam murmured contentedly.

Dean stood straight, leaned to stretch his back and thought for a minute. He gazed around the chamber he was planning to turn into a recreation room and media center.

"Okay, so this room is four Sammys by three-and-a-half Sammys, so we're going to need roughly fourteen square Sammys of carpeting to cover the whole thing . . . ."

IV. (Drabble - 100 words)

Sam lay back in the padded chair, too weak even to hold his head up. His hair was wet and tousled, plastered against his skull, and he rested his head against the towel draped over his shoulders. _Five_ young women had just given him a scalp massage. He was practically purring with contentment.

Bunny Baker, of Bunny's Beauty School, slipped Dean a bundle of folded bills, turned to her students and clapped her hands for attention.

"All right, ladies, let's get him combed out now and then we'll practice perms. While he's setting, the nail technicians can have a go."

V. (Drabble - 100 words)

"I've always admired the way Sam can seem to hold up under anything."

"I see what you mean," Charlie agreed. "But . . ." she studied the younger Winchester judiciously, "I don't think you ought to put an ivy plant in his lap."

Dean studied his brother and frowned. "No?"

"No. I think you should put the dieffenbachia in his lap and the ivy on his shoulder, and let it trail down. And put the little ceramic turtle on his head."

"It'll fall off."

"Super glue it to the doily, then just use bobby pins to hold it in place."

VI. (Drabble - 100 words)

"I wish I could do more," Sam murmured.

"You do enough," Dean said, not glancing up from the tome he was studying but giving his brother his attention nonetheless.''

"All I'm doing is holding the light for you."

"You do what you can. That's all anyone can ask."

"But you do everything _and_ take care of me . . . ."

"'S my job. Don't worry about it."

"You even got me a new hat."

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah . . . ." He fretted quietly for a long minute. ". . . it looks like a lamp shade?"


End file.
